


I'm Not Some Plot Hole, You Son of a Bitch

by dandelioness



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode Related, Episode: s07e17 Born Again Identity, Gen, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelioness/pseuds/dandelioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which God accosts Daphne Allen in a grocery store and begs her to fix a broken angel. Or, the lives of Daphne and Emmanuel Allen before Dean Winchester came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Some Plot Hole, You Son of a Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> So this basically happened because quite frankly I'm more than a little bit tired of the show either killing off women characters or leaving them as gaping plot holes never to be mentioned again (as Joanna Beth Harvelle once put it, I've had it up to here with your crap. Your chauvinist crap). Um, that aside...where was I?
> 
> Oh right. I decided Daphne, Cas' wife when he was Emmanuel, was almost definitely a badass and that I wanted to tell her side of the story. So I did. I also took the "she said God wanted her to find me" quite literally, so. There's some hinting at Destiel because let's face it I ship it like burning, but that's far from the main focus.

            She’s in the grocery store when God approaches her.

            Later, she will think that it’s not really fair, that she never asked for this, that she doesn’t deserve this, not when she stopped believing, stopped going to church almost a decade ago.  Or maybe that’s why she was chosen?

            She’ll think over these things later, watching a stranger sleep on her couch, in her bed, like he belongs there.  But not now.

            Now, she’s picking out coffee beans, because she ran out this morning and there’s already a headache pounding at her temples and she’s thinking she might have to admit that she actually has an addiction to the caffeine.  Now there’s a man standing next to her, and maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention to her surroundings because she doesn’t know how she didn’t see him get so close that he’s between her and her cart.

            “Daphne,” he says, like it’s not a question even though it should be because, she knows as she turns to face him, she doesn’t know him.  He’s a little short, maybe about her height, with unbrushed brown hair, untrimmed beard, and bloodshot, nervous eyes.  His clothes are rumpled, he’s still in his pajama pants, and there’s a six-pack of cheap beer clutched in one trembling hand.  He’s looking at her like he’s scared about what he has to say, but he says it anyway.  “Um, I kinda need to talk to you.  Not here.  Maybe somewhere else?  Does – we could get coffee?”

            “No,” she says immediately, trying to back away even though this man has to be the least threatening person she’s ever seen.  “I don’t know you.”

            “I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks like he truly means it, even as he steps closer and puts two fingers on her forehead.  “But you do.”

            And _oh_.

            She stares at him in newfound horror and awe, and suddenly wonders if she’s allowed to stare at all and says, or starts to say, “Oh, my – “

            But He cuts her off with a nervous and self-deprecating laugh and says, “Actually, I’d rather you just call me Chuck?”

            She hits him.  Later, she’ll think that she probably did right by humanity in that moment, but now she’s just overwhelmed and doesn’t know what else to do.  He just rubs his jaw, nodding and grimacing like he thinks he deserves it, and says, “Okay.”

            They go get coffee.

            She doesn’t say much, doesn’t know what there is to say.  Go – Chuck, on the other hand, can’t seem to shut up, in a roundabout, melancholy sort of way.

            “I mean, obviously I messed up, like, clearly you’ve noticed that, but this one is most definitely not my fault, okay?  It was supposed to be over after _Swan Song_ , but then things just kept happening and I couldn’t stop seeing them and writing them down and I mean, it wasn’t a happy ending, but it was a good ending, okay?  And now this isn’t even good anymore, it’s just bad.  Bad all around.  And despite what all of them seem to think, none of them deserve that.”

            “You’re not making any sense,” she says, as calmly as possible over the edge of her red-eye.  She figures she deserves the extra espresso.  Honestly, she’d rather have a drink, but she’s been dry for almost five years now and she shouldn’t be thinking that right now, shouldn’t be thinking that or eyeing the six-pack in the bag on the floor next to G – Chuck and what does He want with shitty beer anyway?

            Chuck takes a deep breath.  “Okay.  Need to know basis, right?  That’s how this should work.”  Daphne doesn’t say anything, and He runs a hand through His hair.  “So there’s this guy – great character arc, if I say so myself, the whole free will thing was great, completely unexpected and – okay yeah, you don’t care.  Okay so there’s this guy, and uh, he died.  Again.  I mean, he’s died before?  Like, what, two, three times?  And I keep bringing him back because, duh, he’s essential to the story arc.  Well, what’s left of the story arc anyway.  And these other guys, they need him.  Especially Dean.  I think.  But uh, yeah.”

            “So he’s dead,” she prompts after a moment, when it doesn’t look like Chuck is going to say anything else.  She is completely failing to see what any of this has to do with her, but He paid for coffee, so she may as well hear Him out.  Or should she anyways?  What exactly is protocol for meeting God?  Especially when God appears to be a scruffy drunk begging for a favor.

            “Right.  Yeah, he’s dead.  But not for long.  I mean, things are bad when he’s dead.  Well, things are always bad, this isn’t exactly a happy story, and I know it’s sloppy writing to keep bringing him back, you know, diminishes the impact of his death on the reader and all, but trust me, it’d be worse to leave him dead.”

            “So you’re bringing him back again?”  She really, really needs something stronger than coffee, and takes an extra-large gulp of her still-too-hot drink, burning her tongue and throat to drown the thought.

            “Yeah, but, I don’t think he’s gonna be whole, you know?  Not this time, not after everything.  I mean, I’ll bring him back alright, but it’s like a self-defense thing?  His mind, I don’t think, I mean, it’s like a repression thing?”  He must see something like impatience on her face, because He winces and hurries to make His point.  “I mean, he’s not going to remember.  What he’s done, or – or who he is.  Probably.

            “He’s going to need someone to look after him.”

            “I can’t,” she says without thinking, forgetting that she is literally being asked by _God_ to do this.

            “You fix people,” He says, and if it weren’t completely ridiculous, well, more ridiculous than this whole situation already is, she’d almost think His voice sounds like He’s pleading.

            “Not anymore,” she says, stubborn.

            “Please, just,” He hesitates.  “Just think about it.  Go for a walk tonight, and, and think about it.  I’ve already screwed this up enough.  He’s gonna need more than just a resurrection this time around.”

            “Fine,” she says, and downs the last of her coffee.  She stands and turns toward the door because there’s nothing left to say and her coffee is gone and she can’t take this anymore.  Chuck’s voice comes again from behind, softer this time, sad.

            “He was an angel, once.  He Fell.”

            She doesn’t turn.  “Why?”

            “Free will and family and saving the world,” He says, and she doesn’t need to see Him to know He shrugs.  And then, “And I think – I know, it sounds like a shitty cop-out piece of writing, but – I think because he fell in love.”

            Fuck taking a walk, she goes for a hike down by the river, pushing herself too hard and pretending she’s not thinking about what Chuck said earlier.  There’s a splashing and a thump and a gasping from her right.  She turns, and there he is – because who else could he be, this naked man stumbling out of the water toward her, something otherworldly about him despite the clumsiness of his movements, dark hair dripping, blue eyes wide with confusion and fear.  Those eyes lock on her.

            “What – where am I?”  His voice is deeper than she expected, and she finds herself walking over to him, arms reaching around him, helping him stand, offering her coat as some form of protection.  He watches her with an expression that’s almost blank, the fear bleeding off of him as he leans into her touch, just a bit.  She can’t say anything yet, just starts to lead him back the way she came, and he asks, “How did you find me?”

            Her chest fills with an emotion she can’t name and she says, “God wanted me to find you,” choking on the words and trying not to laugh.

 

            She finds him.  She cares for him.  She does what she was asked.

            He moves into her home, sleeping on the couch in her ex-fiancé’s  sweater, which she finds stuffed in the back of a closet, untouched in five years, and a pair of pajama pants.  They buy him clothes, and his taste seems to be navy and tan and boring; she can’t help but think, _Angel?  More like holy tax accountant._

            He’s a good housemate.  He doesn’t smoke or drink or make much noise.  He also doesn’t need to eat or sleep or shave, which surprises him as much as or maybe more than it surprises her.  He sleeps most nights anyway, if only for a few hours, simply because he wants to.

             He is calm and kind and generous, speaks softly, has trouble with eye contact.  He moves like the world is a fragile, breakable thing, talks like he’s apologizing, rarely smiles, never laughs.  Their lack of humor, she thinks, makes them a good match.

             They choose a name from a website, bouncingbabynames-dot-com, of all things.  Emmanuel.  She’s going to choke to death on all the bitter laughter she’s swallowing in this whole affair.

            Chuck was right.  He has no idea who he is, or what happened to him, or how he came to be crawling out of a river buck-naked in the Colorado wilderness.  He doesn’t know how to run the dishwasher, or match a shirt and sweater.  He doesn’t know movies or pop music or politics (though he goes very still once when the Westboro Baptist Church is on the news again, and the TV goes static and blinks off).

            He knows other things, though: the content of most religious texts, his favorite color (green, but a very, very specific green), the names of all the constellations in several languages and cultures, the distance between the Earth and the moon.  And, they find, he knows how to fix people.

            It happens one night when they’re preparing dinner – she’s slicing up a pepper and he’s sautéing onions.  He may not need to eat, but he does, sometimes.  He doesn’t like to eat meat, and practically gags at the smell of beef, so she’s gone vegetarian, trying not to think about how he’s changing her.  Her hand slips, and the knife slides across her skin to leave a sharp red line of welling blood behind.

            “Shit,” she mutters under her breath, but loud enough for Emmanuel to hear, because he turns to her with that slight frown, slight tilt of the head, like he’s trying to understand.  When he sees her finger, he holds his hand out for hers.

            “Let me see.”

            “It’s fine, I’ve got gauze upstairs – “  He catches her hand and rubs his thumb over the cut, blood staining the pad of his finger, but less than she would expect.  And in the wake of his touch, it heals.  Their eyes meet, and for the first time, she understands.

             She _knew_ , because Chuck told her, because of the eating and the sleeping and the otherworldliness, but now she _understands_.  This isn’t a man.  This is an angel.  And the knowledge takes her breath away.

             His eyes go wide as they meet hers.  “I did this.”

             “Yeah,” she responds, a little out of breath.

             “I can fix people.”  And it’s not a question, more like a revelation.  As if a small reminder was all he needed to be secure in the knowledge that he is a healer with immense power.

            She tries not to think about what that means – about what else he’ll remember, and when.  If he’ll remember the ones Chuck said needed him.  If he’ll remember Dean.  If he’ll leave.  She doesn’t want to think about it because she doesn’t want to think about why that thought makes her so uneasy.  So instead she just says, “Yes.”

 

            It only takes a week before he comes to her and says, “This gift – the healing – I can’t keep it for myself.  That would be wrong.”  She just nods and tells him okay because he’s an _angel_ of course he wants to use his mysterious abilities to help people.

            It starts with people they know: the neighbor’s kid who falls off her bike and scrapes her knee; the mailman with chronic migraines; Daphne’s boss, who they visit in the hospital after a kidney transplant.  But word spreads, and soon Daphne is fielding calls from the next county over, then from Utah and Arizona and California, then New York.

            Daphne fields the calls because Emmanuel’s technological expertise seems to extend to misunderstanding the automated voice commands of a cell phone.  And also because he doesn’t have the heart, she thinks, to root out the dicks and the wackjobs and dangerous ones.  Oh, she doesn’t doubt he can protect himself, but still.

            One of the disadvantages of being a faith healer is that you get a lot of religious fanatics coming through.  Emmanuel doesn’t seem to mind; he can talk scripture with the best of them, though he sometimes frowns and quietly suggests that maybe the literal text is less important than the message, when people get too extreme.  The real problem is when people find out he lives with Daphne, a woman he is unrelated and unmarried to.

            “We should get married,” she blurts one morning over breakfast.  Emmanuel just blinks owlishly at her, and she can feel herself turn red.  “It will look better.  I had two people last week lecture me on the morals of living together in sin, and to be honest, I’m tired of it.”  _And it’s not like I have other offers lined up_.  He’s still just looking at her.  She sighs.  “It’s just a piece of paper, Emmanuel.”

             And it is.  There isn’t even a ceremony, only a piece of paper with a false last name (he takes her name, after) signed by witnesses in the Town Hall, a chaste kiss that feels cold on her lips.  She doesn’t break out the wedding dress she still has stored in her attic, doesn’t think about how this time is so much different than last time and everything she ever expected.

            That night, she starts bringing his things into her – their – bedroom.  It’s mostly clothes and books (he cannot seem to read enough) and the small things given to him by people he has helped: a hand-knitted scarf, a drawing, a poem, a pretty shell.  It takes him a few minutes to realize what she’s doing because he’s caught up in _A Tale of Two Cities_ , but when he does, he frowns and asks why.

            “Emmanuel,” she sighs, shifting the milk crate of books on her hip, “There’s no point in getting married if you’re still sleeping on the couch.  We’ll share my room.  It’s big enough, and as long as you’re not a blanket hog, we should get along fine.”

            “You want us to sleep in the same bed,” he says, and there’s something awfully resigned about it that makes her stomach churn.

            “I’m not going to make you have sex with me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she snaps, and he looks up at her, blue eyes wide.  “Oh my god, it is.  I can’t believe – Emmanuel, you barely let me touch you, I would never – I thought you thought better of me.”

            She finishes moving his things alone.

            That night, he tiptoes upstairs hours after she has gone to bed and slowly, hesitantly, climbs in.  She shifts to make sure he has plenty of room, but he leans over and puts a warm hand on hers and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

 

            It’s a good life, their life.

            Daphne still works her mundane office job, spending her days on the phone and on the computer and buried in paperwork; but she doesn’t go home to an empty house anymore.  Now, when she comes home, Emmanuel is there, reading or cooking or planting roses in the dead flowerbeds behind the house.  She doesn’t know how he manages it, but in a matter of weeks the soil comes alive under his hands, and the roses grow fast and bloom long before their time, another one of his little miracles.

            She fields phone calls and sends Emmanuel to people’s homes, and he always comes back with a small, satisfied smile that means he knows he helped someone today.  Even though her hands aren’t the ones that heal, she still feels like she’s doing something good, a feeling so rusty it’s almost foreign.

            Once, she asks him if it bothers him, not remembering who he was; asks if he misses his life.  He seems almost surprised by the question, and has to think a moment before he can answer.

            “I don’t remember, so there’s nothing to miss.  I’m with you, and I help people, and I’m…content.  This is my life now, it’s a good life, and I am content.”  She smiles at him, absurdly pleased about _I’m with you_ , and trying not to be absurdly disappointed that she cannot make him happy.  She can settle for content.

 

            He doesn’t need to eat, but on occasion, he does.  He doesn’t need to sleep, but on occasion, he does.  But he has strange dreams, sometimes.  Nightmares about a lake filled with malicious ink, or about a calm lake where a man fishes from a dock, hauntingly familiar though his back is turned.  About a voice saying desperately, _Castiel, you son of a bitch, come home_.

            Daphne knows these things because he talks in his sleep, the few times he does.  He doesn’t remember in the morning.

 

            One day, Emmanuel goes digging in her old office, looking for a book she mentioned she has, and comes out holding her Master’s degree.

            “You’re a psychologist,” he says, and his voice is surprised.  She can’t blame him; the menial work she does now certainly doesn’t require her level of education.

            She shrugs.  “I was.”

            “What happened?”  The question is simple and curious, not a judgment, just Emmanuel.

            She tenses anyway.  “Some people, in times of stress, they do yoga or find god.  I found booze and pills instead.”  It’s usually enough to shut up the few people who have asked her why the drastic change in profession, but Emmanuel doesn’t even blink, and she finds herself continuing, gripping the coffee mug in her hand so hard she thinks it might crack.  “I lost my job, I lost my fiancé, I lost my entire life…by the time I got done with rehab, I just – I became a therapist so I could help people,” she spits out, remembering Chuck’s words.  “But I’m broken, too.  I can’t _fix_ anyone.”

            He puts down the dusty degree and crosses the room to her.  She doesn’t realize she’s shaking until he’s got one arm wrapped around her and her face is buried in his sweater.  “You fixed me,” he murmurs into her hair, and she wants to gasp out that no, she didn’t, she can’t, he doesn’t remember and she doesn’t want him to, but suddenly she’s crying in a way she hasn’t in a long, long time.  He just presses a kiss onto her head and says, “You are a good woman, Daphne.  You can help people still.”

            The simple faith in that statement only makes her cry harder.

            Somehow, after that, she smiles more.  They are strangely domestic, despite the odd nature of Emmanuel’s profession and of their relationship.  They cook together, sleep together (though never in the Biblical sense), sit beside each other on the couch in silence for hours, one of them occasionally reading a passage aloud from whatever book they happen to be absorbed in.

            The calls come in, people are healed, the roses bloom, and Daphne smiles.  Emmanuel’s little miracles.

 

            “Can I help you?” Daphne asks the man on her porch.  He looks like someone out of _Leave it to Beaver_ and something about the way he’s smiling makes her incredibly uneasy.  She suddenly finds herself wishing Emmanuel were home, even though he only went out to return a library book.

            “I’m looking for Emmanuel,” he says, standing a bit too close to the doorway.

            “He’s not home right now – “ she begins, trying to close the door in his face, but his grin only widens as he pushes it open with inhuman strength, his eyes flashing black.

            “Then you and I can just have a little chat until he gets back.”

            She screams and she fights and she prays that someone hears her, that _Emmanuel_ hears her, but she’s alone and he’s too strong and he is _not human_ he is some kind of _monster_ and she is so _afraid_.  She doesn’t understand how she ends up bound and gagged, tied to her own chair as this _thing_ talks at her and she is too caught up in her own fear to understand the words he says.

            She knew she would lose Emmanuel eventually, that he would remember and would leave and return to living the life that got him killed in the first place.  She knew she would lose him, but not like this.  If he comes home – if this _thing_ gets him – if this is the day she loses her husband – that frightens her more than the empty black eyes inches from her own.

            She’s almost blinded by fear until she hears another knock on the door and the man – _thing_ – leaves off of breathing in her face to growl about interruptions and answer it.  She knows this is her moment – if she were a movie heroine, she could use this opportunity to escape – but all she can seem to do is wriggle around and make muffled cries and manage a moment of desperate eye contact with the new man on the porch.

            Who puts a knife in the gut of the _thing_.

            When he comes inside, her husband is following him, rushing past the stranger to untie her and she is shaking with relief because he is here and whole and _hers_.

            “Emmanuel,” she says urgently, because it’s all she can think about, “They were looking for you.”  She clutches his hand and he squeezes back, but without the complete and utter desperation she can feel leaking through her fingertips.  He is the calm in the storm, always.

            “It’s okay,” he says, looking away from her even as she touches his face to reassure herself that he’s alright.  He leads her over to the stranger who knocked on her door and killed the demon on her doorstep.  “I’m Emmanuel.”

            “Dean,” the man replies, his face closed and cautious for reasons she can’t understand, looking almost pained as he shakes Emmanuel’s hand.  The name makes a warning bell go off in the back of her mind, but she’s still too shaken from what just happened to care very much.

            The _thing_ was a demon, and she should’ve known; if there are angels, there must be demons, right?  Too bad Chuck neglected to mention that.  _I didn’t sign up for that, you son of a bitch_ , she thinks, hoping he can hear her.  Not exactly a prayer, but still.  He’s God, right?

            She tries to recover, put on her business face for dealing with Emmanuel’s patients, play the caring and slightly naïve wife telling Dean about Emmanuel’s _special gifts_.  Dean’s words are curt, closed-off, blunt.  There’s something else there, something in the earnest, searching way he looks at Emmanuel that Daphne can’t place; something in the way he almost flinches when Emmanuel calls her his wife, in the way he can’t seem to tear his eyes from Emmanuel’s face.

            Something in the way that Emmanuel (who rarely looks directly at the person he’s speaking to, who barely maintains eye contact with Daphne) can’t look away either.

            _And these other guys, they need him.  Especially Dean._

            And Daphne knows.  Knows when Emmanuel kisses her dryly on the cheek and says he’ll be back in a few days, knows when he stares at Dean even as he climbs into the shiny black car out front.  Today is the day she loses her husband; not to the demon, but to Dean.

 

            That first night he’s gone, she prays again for the first time in over a decade.  It’s not much of a prayer, but she figures that since she has proof of God and angels and all of it now, the least she can do is try.  Besides, Emmanuel was never much of a talker, but the house is oddly silent without him and she is desperate to fill the space he’s left behind.

            “Hey, Chuck.  From one pathetic drunk to another – you’re welcome.  I hope it works out for them.  For him.”

 

            People call, wanting to be healed.  The part of her that’s still in denial tells them that Emmanuel is away on a case, and should be back soon.  She will call when she can.

            A week without Emmanuel, and her second prayer isn’t so kind: “Just remember, you pretentious bastard, we’re people, not characters.  I am not just some plot hole to be ignored when he remembers Dean and angel-hood.”

 

            Her life goes on.  A counseling position at a nearby rehab center opens up, and she applies.  The interview goes well and she gets the job, despite her long break from therapy and social work; she thinks her time on the other side of the equation has, for once, given her an advantage.  At home, alone, she celebrates with a pot of coffee and the memory of a deep voice assuring her that, _You are a good woman, Daphne.  You can help people still_.

            People still call.  She tells them, voice tight, that Emmanuel has passed on.  That God has called back one of his best, and all she has left is the hope that he’s happy now.  Word spreads, and the calls become condolences, people assuring her that Emmanuel was one of the greatest men who ever lived; an angel, really.

            A month without Emmanuel, and it’s not even a prayer anymore.  “Fuck you, Chuck.  He better be okay.”  She cries into her pillow when she says it, and the other side of the bed is cold and empty.

 

            _“Daphne?”_ The voice on the other line is vaguely familiar, she thinks, but she can’t quite place it.  Granted, it’s a Sunday morning and she’s infinitely more focused on pulling weeds because someone has to keep up these rose beds, right?  _“I’m calling about Emmanuel.”_

            “I’m sorry, but Emmanuel passed away some time ago – “ she begins tersely, but the voice cuts her off.

            _“What?  No, he didn’t, he’s right – “_   She can practically hear the gears clicking into place.  _“Oh.  That’s what you’ve had to tell people, after he – after I – “_

            “Who is this?” she demands, rocking back onto her heels, crabgrass still clutched tight in one gloved hand.

            _“Dean.  Dean Winchester.  I’m the last guy who came to ask for Ca – for Emmanuel’s help.”_

            “Oh,” because she doesn’t know what else to say.  “You had a brother…”

            _“Still do, thanks to Cas.  Emmanuel.  Shit.”_   He mutters something under his breath that she can’t hear.

            “Why are you calling me?  Is Emmanuel alright?”  Her knuckles go white on the edges of her cell, but she reminds herself that the first thing Dean had done was deny Emmanuel’s death, so he has to be okay.  He has to be.

            _“Yeah, he’s fine.  Well, mostly.  I – I waited to call you until he was doing better.”_   There’s guilt in his tone, which just makes her angry.

            “What did you do to him?”

            _“Nothing!”_ Dean spits immediately, and then, _“Ah, fuck.  I – he fixed Sam, my brother, but he got messed up when he did it.  In the head.  But he’s doing better now.  He’s – I mean, he’s been through a lot, so.”_

            “Does he remember it all?  His – his name, his life, who he is?”  She already knows the answer.

            _“Yeah,”_ Dean says quietly.  _“I think that’s why fixing Sam fucked him up so bad.  There was a reason he didn’t want to remember.  A lot of reasons, actually._ ”

            “Why are you calling me, Dean?” she asks again after a minute.  There are tears burning in the backs of her eyes because she can’t bring herself to ask the one question she desperately wants the answer to.

            _“I just – you’re his wife, aren’t you?  Or you were.  So I just wanted to let you know that Cas – Castiel, that’s his real name – that he’s okay.  That he’s gonna be fine.  That I didn’t just run off with your husband and leave him in a ditch somewhere, I wouldn’t do that.  Shit, I nearly went crazy myself when he was gone, and you actually loved him, you were married, for chrissake.”_

            “Our marriage, it – it wasn’t like that,” she admits, closing her eyes against this conversation.  She doesn’t know why Emmanuel – Castiel – hasn’t told Dean this himself, or why it’s important for her to tell Dean this, but it is.  “It was just a ring for show, so people wouldn’t question us living together.  I only knew him for a few months, it wasn’t real, we never –“  She cuts herself off again, hating the wobbling in her voice.  “It was just for show.”

            Dean’s silent, but then, _“Maybe, but I saw how you looked at him.  I thought you should know he was okay.”_   He takes a deep breath, one that rattles oddly down the line.  _“You did your best by him, and I can’t thank you enough.  Hell, you did better by him than I ever have.”_   His laugh is short and bitter and regretful, and damn if Daphne doesn’t know that sound like she knows her reflection.

            “I miss him,” she admits, because she can’t hold it in anymore, and her voice is thick with the tears she won’t let fall.  “I knew – I knew he would leave eventually, but I miss him.  He saved me.”

            _“Yeah,”_ Dean says quietly, _“He does that.”_  They’re silent for a minute, and then Dean clears his throat.  _“Anyway, I just wanted you to know.  I’ve gotta go, but uh, just stay away from anything owned by Dick Roman, okay?”_

            “What?”  She shakes her head.  “Sure, fine, but Dean, before you go…”

            _“Yeah?”_

            Oh god she really shouldn’t say this, but she can hear Chuck telling her, _I think because he fell in love_ and so she says it anyway.  “I saw how you looked at him, too.  Just don’t – just take care of him, okay?”  Oh no, she is not fucking choking up over this.

            There’s a long silence, and she’s a little afraid he’ll yell at her for her presumption, but, _“I will, Daphne, I swear I will.”_   And it’s okay, because Dean’s voice is thick, too.

            And that’s that.  Only after he hangs up does she let the tears fall, thick and salty, probably poisoning the soil that Emmanuel – Cas – worked so hard to blend exactly from precisely measured dirt and compost and peat moss.  Only then does she gasp out the real question that’s burned in her mind for weeks, whispered and unanswered and bitterly jealous.

            “When he remembered you, Dean, did he forget about me?”


End file.
